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the window box

There is a tufted titmouse who has taken to the sunflower seeds that are collecting in the window box below the feeder on the window by the floral chair. He sits on the edge of the box and steadies a seed between his feet. Then he hammers at the shell of the seed with his beak to get at the sustenance.

Yesterday morning a small brown squirrel had breakfast in the window box. The cat who lives with me and frequents the windowsill was delighted to have nothing but a pane of glass and a couple of inches between her and this tiny instance of wildness. Like Derrida’s cat, she bore witness to the intimacy wrapped up in this everyday occasion.

My sister and I had a chance to sit together for a while last week. Just she and I, and whatever divine/feline presence regards us through a spiritual pane when we engage like that in moments of relationship. We sipped coffee and talked about all manner of things, as good friends do.

We were two tiny instances of wildness sharing a window box. We gathered ideas between us. We harvested seeds of wisdom from our own lived experiences. We used the tactics of conversation and the muscle of our relationship to break through the shells of life’s confounding realities and uncover some sustenance inside.

We’ve needed the sustenance. There’s a lot going on. There’s always a lot going on.

In it all I try to remember: The birds flit, the squirrels chatter, a watchful spirit hovers, and we do our best to root out the profundity that pulses like pure potential in the moments that make us smile, and in the ones that break our hearts.

I try to remember that in it all we are together. I try to remember to crack the window a little and let the outside in.

PS - Happy birthday big sister.

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